


home

by ficfacfoe, quinnkings



Category: UnREAL (TV)
Genre: Bedsharing, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-01 08:05:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14516001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficfacfoe/pseuds/ficfacfoe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinnkings/pseuds/quinnkings
Summary: this is season 4 we are now officially on the unreal writing staff





	1. stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> picks up right after the end of season 3, rachel at her brand new cabin, unable to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was gonna write this as a quick oneshot but then syd came up with a million amazing things so we're gonna be writing this taking turns each chapter. we love to suffer!

“Quinn, it’s me.”

 

The phone weighs heavy in her hand. The wooden panels of her deck are hard under her, the back of her head boring into them, everything heavy. Voicemail, again.

 

“I need you.”

 

She hangs up.

 

Tears spill down Rachel’s temples as she stares up at the evening sky. It gets much darker out here in the woods, stars much brighter at night than in a city, on a set where everything is constantly distorted by artificial lights. Here, nothing is distorted.

 

She gets up with a deep sigh, rests her aching head in her hands for a moment before dragging her feet inside. This is home, now. She lights a few candles that have half melted into the window sill. She makes a mental note to buy candle holders.

 

The cabin smells like wood and rain, damp but not moldy. Fresh. A fresh start. This is what she’s been dreaming of. Quinn has given Rachel her dream. But Rachel can’t sleep at night.

 

This place is quiet in a mind numbing way.

 

Rachel tried meditating, tried to go back to the state of mind she’d been in at the farm. But there is no farm, no other people, no promised end to all this silence, no high heels stalking through muddy planes of grass to come collect her.

 

Except now there is. If Quinn checks her voicemail, that is.

 

Her phone rings. _Quinn_. Rachel’s chest feels tight. Suddenly, she doesn’t know what she was thinking. She answers with a tired, “Hey.”

 

“Are you okay?” Quinn’s voice is a bit hectic and full of worry. Rachel can hear rustling, like Quinn is getting dressed. The thought has her head spinning.

 

“Yeah, sorry. Could you… Can you come over?”

 

Silence. Then, distractedly, “Be there in twenty.”

 

“Thanks, Quinn.”

 

Nineteen minutes later, Quinn’s car screeches to a halt outside. Rachel stares at her reflection in the window, tries to pat down her messy hair, pinches her cheeks. She doesn’t want Quinn to think she’s not happy, she doesn’t want to look as much of a wreck as she feels. She really wants to be happy, here, in this place that Quinn gave her.

 

Heels click against wood.

 

Rachel takes a deep breath, opens the door.

 

And Quinn just stands there in the dark, hair almost as messy as Rachel’s own, which is _weird,_ and makes Rachel’s skin prickle.

 

Quinn brushes her hands through it. The woman seems scattered, like light hitting a diamond. And then, Rachel sees it. On Quinn’s finger, obnoxiously big and undeniably real.

 

All this in less than half a second of Quinn gathering herself before she asks, “Rachel, are you okay? What do you need?”

 

Rachel swallows. Stares. At a diamond ring on Quinn’s finger. Involuntarily, she reaches for it. Quinn’s eyes go wide as Rachel’s hand approaches her own. The silver band is cold against Rachel’s palm, Quinn’s skin warm in contrast. Rachel puts her thumb on the other side of it, smooth edges of a sharp-looking thing. It stings all the way through her arm and into her heart.

 

“You went to Chet.” Rachel can’t think of anything else to say. Her head is pounding.

 

“Yeah, Rachel, whatever,” Quinn tries to wave off, her eyes restlessly jumping between Rachel’s face and her own hand in the other woman’s. Rachel lets go, takes a step back.

 

“I thought you were done with me,” Quinn adds, a polished edge to her voice, and Rachel isn’t sure if that’s supposed to be a change of topic or further explanation of the ring on her finger. The look on Quinn’s face has Rachel thinking that Quinn isn’t sure what she’s trying to say either.

 

“I didn’t know who else to call,” Rachel admits.

 

Quinn’s face twists into another pained half-smile. She finally steps inside, brushes past Rachel, eyes the candles that are dripping wax all over the floor now.

 

“I’m buying candle holders tomorrow,” Rachel mumbles behind her. “Wine?” she asks, reaching blindly into a cupboard to pull out two glasses and a bottle.

 

She can hear Quinn walking through the dark cabin and doesn’t wait for a reply, just pours two generous portions.

 

They sit at the small kitchen table in silence for a while until Quinn asks, “Why did you call?”

 

Rachel sighs, rests her head in her hands.

 

“I couldn’t sleep. Can you just...” She sighs again, blinks up at Quinn. “Can you stay?”

 

So, Quinn stays. Rachel doesn’t quite understand why. Then again, she still doesn’t get why Quinn bought her this place, either.

 

This place. This place begins to feel warmer after they finish the bottle of wine. When Quinn gets up to pee she momentarily sits back down and takes her heels off. A lot more warmth floods Rachel. Quinn’s bare feet tap to the bathroom.

 

Somehow, the silence isn’t awkward.

 

They stand outside to share a cigarette, Quinn without her heels, Rachel without much thought left on her brain. She stares at Quinn’s toes.

 

And somehow, it isn’t awkward when they go back inside and head to bed. Rachel brings the last remaining candle that hasn’t melted completely yet. She searches for two t-shirts mostly by touch.

 

She can’t help staring. Rachel’s eyes have adjusted to the dark but it still feels like thick curtains separate her from really seeing Quinn as more and more skin is revealed.

 

The room is small and the bed is smaller. Quinn is in one of Rachel’s big, baggy shirts. Quinn disappears under the covers. Rachel breathes.

 

She can feel Quinn’s eyes on her as she changes.

 

When she slips into bed next to Quinn, their legs bump.

 

“Thank you,” Rachel mumbles. She lies on her side, knee against Quinn’s thigh. She’s hit with all the sleepless nights of the past few weeks at once. “Thank you for this,” she sighs. For the cabin, she means. For staying. Her eyes drift shut. Quinn fumbles with the covers, twist around until her breath mingles with Rachel’s.

 

It jolts her awake again. Suddenly, Rachel’s heart is beating wildly in her chest.

 

Quinn’s breathing evens out soon, while Rachel blinks through the darkness. She lets herself take in the softness of Quinn’s sleeping face. Her pulse won’t stop pounding. She feels like her whole body is vibrating, like the tension alone is gonna wake Quinn up again. Rachel has never dared to look at Quinn like this. Carefully, slowly. Her gaze flickers to where Quinn’s hand rests on the pillow in between their faces. She’s taken the ring off.

 

She really, really tries to stop herself. But Rachel’s body isn’t her own anymore, and when she slides a palm over Quinn’s hand she lets her eyes flutter shut. Quinn is asleep, so Rachel can pretend that she is, too. At least that’s enough of an excuse right now. Quinn stirs. Rachel holds her breath. Quinn’s hand moves, and for a gut-wrenching moment Rachel thinks she’s going to pull away. She doesn’t know why the thought tears through her like a knife. But then, Quinn’s hand is turned around, her palm to Rachel’s. Fingers interlace, dream-like.

 

All this, and Rachel is still holding her breath. She finally lets it out, slowly, tries not to sigh in relief. For a few seconds she feels watched, like maybe Quinn isn’t sleeping after all. The exhilaration that the thought sends down Rachel’s spine is miraculously calming, like a summer storm. Dangerous, but comforting with all its thunder and lightning. Rachel finally falls asleep, holding Quinn’s hand. Finally, she feels like this could be her home.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They wake up tangled and cold under thin sheets. Sometime, in her sleep, Quinn had thrown a leg and an arm over Rachel’s waist, so when Rachel startles awake, half of Quinn’s weight is on top of her. Rachel’s eyes go wide, ogling their bodies. She moves instinctively, drags an extra blanket that almost slipped off the bed over them. Lets her hands move up and down Quinn’s back.

 

With a sleepy noise, Quinn shuffles even closer, buries her nose in Rachel’s neck. She could stay like this forever, Rachel thinks, and isn’t even a fraction as alarmed as she probably should be.

 

Turns out, Quinn isn’t in any rush to get up, either. Rachel smiles in surprise when Quinn mumbles, “Five more minutes.”

 

Rachel’s heart swells. Without thinking, she says, “I want to come back.”

 

Quinn’s head lifts, tired eyes blinking open. “What?”

 

“To the show. I want to come back.”

 

Quinn’s breathing comes out unsteady against Rachel’s skin. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

They drift off to sleep again, after that. Rachel doesn’t remember the last time she’s felt so entirely comforted.


	2. move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quinn leaves rachel's cabin the next morning and is on her way back to her house when she realizes she has to make a stop at chet's place. she can't stop thinking about rachel for the entire day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> having to write chet in any capacity was horrible and bad so please appreciate what i struggled through to give you this.

Quinn wakes up some time later, her body still half thrown over Rachel, feeling suddenly very self conscious about it. What is she doing? Last night, this morning, what is this? It certainly isn’t them. Panic rises in Quinn’s chest until she looks at Rachel sleeping soundlessly beside her. Really looks at her. Quinn stops herself from putting a hand to Rachel’s face, but then does it regardless. Boundaries seem not to exist at this point anyway.

 

Rachel makes a soft, sleepy noise and turns into Quinn’s hand slightly. For the first time, Quinn isn’t ignoring that feeling somewhere deep inside her, the feeling she usually gets around Rachel, and she lets it expand and flood her entire body. It scares her shitless and she doesn’t quite know what to do with it, but it’s exhilarating, and like a junkie Quinn doesn’t ever want it to end. In fact, detangling herself from Rachel and getting out of this bed seems harder than climbing Mount Everest right now.

 

Somehow, eventually, Quinn is able to pull herself away. She manages to get up without waking Rachel and walks over to where she’d dropped her things the night before. Quinn checks her watch and mentally curses. 8:07 a.m. She’d wanted to make it to set for 8:30, get an early start on a new season, but whatever, plans change. And not necessarily for the worse.

 

Quinn puts her pants back on, but can’t bring herself to put her own shirt on and leave Rachel’s. God, it… smells like Rachel, and it has Quinn’s head spinning.

 

Quinn’s gaze falls on the small, glinting object sitting on top of her blouse. The ring. She’d taken it off the night before because it would have been uncomfortable to sleep on, given its ridiculous size. And, potentially — probably — because she’d seen the look on Rachel’s face when she opened the door, when she’d grabbed Quinn’s hand. It had felt wrong.

 

Now, looking at it in the light of day, it feels even stranger to Quinn. Like that piece of cold, pressurized carbon has no place on her hand, even though it’s usually covered with rings anyway. She pockets it.

 

Quinn tiptoes out of the room, still wearing Rachel’s shirt, not letting herself glance back for fear of not being able to resist the urge to climb into that tiny bed again. Quinn collects her purse and heels from by the front door and ducks out into the morning air, cool where Rachel had just been radiating warmth.

 

Quinn is halfway back to her own place when she realizes she left half of her makeup and toiletries in a bag at Chet’s house. “Fuck!” she curses, and slams her steering wheel. Chet is the last person she wants to see this morning. Quinn doesn’t stop to wonder why that is, just yet. But her morning routine is not something she’s ever been willing to compromise.

 

Luckily Quinn had left the door open when she went to Rachel the previous night, and Chet either hadn’t realized or hadn’t bothered to lock it behind her. Flashes of last night make their way through Quinn’s brain, contrasting images of Rachel and Chet colliding like hot and cold air causing a tornado.

 

Rachel, soft and warm, needing her, the both of them half-tipsy on red wine and intoxicated by something else entirely.

 

But before that, Chet, with his confessions and the ring he had kept and needing Quinn in a way she didn’t want to think about, a way that didn’t sit well with her. A way that she had desperately accepted when she thought it was her only option.

 

Quinn pushes all of it down now, buries it like she always does, and steps into his house.

 

Fortunately, unsurprisingly, Chet is still asleep. Unfortunately, all of Quinn’s things are in the adjoining master bathroom. Despite her best efforts, Chet groans and rolls over when she’s trying to sneak out.

 

“Hey, Quinny,” he calls softly. “Is everything okay? All you said last night was that there was an emergency.”

 

Quinn sighs, rubbing her forehead. “Yeah, uh, everything is fine. It’s fine, it was nothing. Go back to bed.”

 

Chet grabs her hand as she walks past the bed. “You’re not wearing the ring. Not having second thoughts, are you?” Quinn can’t help but chuckle quietly at the idea that she’d thought about it at all in the first place.

 

“No, no, I, uh… I just didn’t want to accidentally leave it anywhere.”

 

“Oh, okay.” Chet’s sweaty hand is still locked around Quinn’s own. “Come to bed for a little while.”

 

Ignoring Quinn’s protests, Chet physically pulls her into bed beside him and wraps his arms around her. “Chet, really, I have to get to set. I have a whole season to wrap up and another one to plan. I know you don’t appreciate all the work that actually goes into making this show, but some of us can’t afford to lie around all day.”

 

Suddenly, being in bed with Chet in any capacity makes Quinn’s stomach turn, and Chet’s arms are suffocating. She can’t breathe, flight response activated, and Quinn tries to worm her way out of his grasp. “Seriously, Chet, I need to get home and shower. Please.”

 

Finally Chet lets her go, muttering under his breath about something, and Quinn all but jumps out of the bed. “You can always shower here. We could, y’know... shower together,” he proposes with a raised brow and greasy smile.

 

“Thanks, but, uh, no thanks. I’ll see you later, okay?”

 

Quinn rushes out of the room without waiting for a response. Chet’s “I love you” follows her down the hall like it’s chasing her, like a threat.

 

 

 

All the way to work, Quinn can’t help feeling giddy. Very few things genuinely excite Quinn, give her butterflies, and an even smaller number of those things are people. Actually, currently, only one of those things is a person, and it’s not the person whose ring is sitting in her bedside drawer.

 

Quinn doesn’t know how much to let herself feel, or even what it is she’s feeling. She’s not used to this, to addressing these things. Especially when it comes to Rachel.

 

She tries to bury herself in paperwork all day, but her thoughts keeping bubbling over and distracting her. She thinks about Rachel, about what she’s doing at that moment, where she is on set. Knowing that she’s so close by both comforts Quinn and sets every one of her nerve endings aflame.

 

Quinn sees Rachel once during the day, when she goes outside for a cigarette. But Rachel is busy, tied up in a closing interview with one of the contestants, no doubt getting precisely what she needs out of him. So Quinn watches her for a few minutes, smiles to herself.

 

She reminisces about Rachel’s first days on Everlasting, how Quinn had known within minutes of seeing her work that with her guidance, she’d be the best producer Quinn had ever hired. How she’d recognized, a little while later, that they were the same. And how she’d realized, too late, just how dangerous that could be.

 

Despite that, Quinn thinks, it has all been beyond worth it. She’s brought Rachel so far; something that Quinn considers one of her biggest accomplishments, something she’s proud of. Some _one_ she’s proud of. If she was going to leave any sort of legacy, it would be Rachel.

 

And even after everything, all the shit that’s happened — all the shit that Quinn has made happen — Rachel has still come back to Everlasting.

 

To her. Because she’s Quinn’s girl.

 

Now, after last night, that seems to mean so much more. Quinn doesn’t know what yet, and she’s more than certain Rachel doesn’t either. This is uncharted territory, a new development. The fact that they were so physically close to one another, so intimate, is a complete 180º for them. Quinn thinks back to when she freaked out at Dr. Simon after Rachel had come to her office that one night, had laid on her lap. Any discomfort, any hesitation she’d felt then seems almost laughable now.

 

What changed? Quinn is good at refusing to feel. She’s practiced her whole life, made a career out of it. Before now, she’d only ever let a fraction of what she feels about Rachel to see the light of day. But everything that Quinn had been denying had demanded to be set free when Rachel told her she was leaving, and again later when they were sitting on those pool chairs. And when Rachel called her before Quinn even had time to attempt to tuck everything neatly back into place, there was no stopping the floodgates from opening.

 

That call had both doomed and saved her. To hell with inhibitions, to hell with pretending. Quinn has almost lost her girl too many times.

 

And she can’t stop thinking about Rachel’s shirt sitting on her bed at her house.

 

Quinn might not know what it means, but she knows she can’t possibly go back to the way it was. Before she’s even finished her cigarette, Quinn has at least figured that much out. Come to the conclusion that what her and Rachel have transcends anything else in their lives, and that she needs to do something real about that.

 

Later, her heart jumps when she hears the soft knock on her office door.


	3. revisit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rachel returns to set, and by the end of the day, quinn returns to rachel. some confessions are made in between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> turns out syd and i are the most productive team and the only people who should be allowed near these characters so. here's another chapter

By the end of her first day back on set, Rachel finds Quinn in her office. They haven’t talked about last night, or the morning. Because who does that? They’re two grown women who had a sleepover and _cuddled_. Rachel shakes her head at herself. Can’t help but smile.

 

Quinn raises a half empty tumbler of liquor in greeting when Rachel step into her office. There is no ring on her finger, Rachel notices.

 

“Good first day back?” Quinn asks.

 

“Why can’t I stay away from this?” Rachel half laughs, averting her eyes from Quinn’s steady gaze as heat rises in her cheeks. And then, much more quietly, Rachel adds, “Why can’t I stay away from you?”

 

Quinn gets up to walk around her desk toward Rachel.

 

“What, Rachel ‘you need to get over me’ Goldberg? Admitting that she has feelings, too? Wow.” Quinn’s eyebrows are raised, and she tips her glass at Rachel again.   


“I didn’t say feelings, Quinn, what?” Rachel’s heart skips a beat. “It’s like... this toxic obsession, I don’t-”  


“No, you know what, Rachel?” Quinn interrupts. “You trying to reason things like this away is the only thing toxic about it. This is who you are. And you and I, we have a connection. A _real_ connection.”

 

“What are you even saying?” Rachel scoffs, kicks at something invisible and stares at the ground.

 

“I’m saying stop fighting so hard to stay away. You clearly can’t, considering this time you only managed to get off set for about twenty four hours. You barely made it a few hours trying to stay away from _me._ And you don’t need to.” Quinn has stepped dangerously close, her hand grazing Rachel’s arm. “We’re good together.”

 

Rachel smiles sadly. “We’re really not.” Their hands bump again, and this time, Quinn grabs Rachel’s. This time, neither can feign sleep.

 

“But we are.” Quinn smiles, eyes watery. “Yes, okay, I may be a cold, heartless bitch, but not when it comes to you. Never with you. Why is that so hard for you to believe? That I care about you, about us?”

 

Rachel gapes at her, eyebrows knit together. She opens and closes her mouth voicelessly. She thinks back to the weight of Quinn’s body in the morning, the lines on her face in the soft light of dawn.

 

“Quinn,” she starts, and has to clear her throat, suddenly choking on air. “You know I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, I mean, for God’s sake, you bought me a cabin in the woods-”

 

“Yeah, Rachel. I did that for you, when I thought you were gonna leave me. And I would do it all over again. Not because you came back. No matter what, I have always wanted you happy.”

 

“I am,” Rachel blurts out. “You make me happy,” she stutters, and her eyes shoot open wider.

 

Terror is mixed with years worth of relief on Quinn’s face. “I do?”

 

“You do,” Rachel nods, and then she’s laughing. “You make me really fucking happy.”

 

Quinn pulls at Rachel’s hand until they’re tangled in a messy hug, hands fumbling for a place to rest safely. Rachel’s long hair is all over Quinn’s face. When she blows it away, Quinn’s breath hits Rachel’s ear. And then Quinn’s cheek is against Rachel’s.

 

And Rachel has that feeling again, the same she’d had waking up with Quinn. Like coming home.

 

Rachel tries to steady her breathing. This is fine, she thinks, friends can hug and make each other happy and feel like… this. Intimacy is part of all sorts of relationships. So, Rachel doesn’t overthink, only hesitates nervously for a fraction of a second before she turns her head to press a quick kiss to Quinn’s cheek. “I love you,” she mumbles, steps back, smiles. The smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

 

There is a look on Quinn’s face that has Rachel’s stomach fluttering with more feelings she’s definitely not ready to address. Quinn’s cheeks are tinted pink when she turns away and heads back to her desk. “Love you too,” she mutters when her back is turned to Rachel.

 

Rachel takes a deep, steading breath. “Right, I’ll head home, I guess,” she states, voice wavering like she’s waiting for Quinn to protest. But Quinn just tips her glass again, smiles a tight lipped smile that seems way too foreign, too formal, now that Rachel knows the way Quinn stretches sleepily in the morning.

  
  
  
  
  
  


When Rachel gets home, she’s greeted by last night’s empty glasses, rims stained with red wine. She grins to herself.

 

It takes Rachel about an hour of restless back-and-forth between sitting outside smoking, getting ready for bed and doing the dishes, before she picks up her phone.

 

“Hey,” she says when Quinn answers.

 

“Hey,” Quinn echoes, and Rachel could swear she can hear one of those rare, real smiles all the way through the phone, carried by electricity and radio waves like a tangible thing.

 

“Did you like the wine?” Rachel asks dumbly.

 

Quinn chuckles. “Yeah, it wasn’t as bad as what I’d expected from your kitchen.”

 

“I have another bottle.”

 

Rachel holds her breath. Is she crazy for suggesting this again? For wanting this again? For _needing_ Quinn again, just one night later?

 

She hears rustling, a different kind than last night. Not clothes, just paper against paper.

 

“Give me, like,” something falls to the ground and Quinn curses, “fuck, give me an hour? I’m still buried in paperwork.”

 

Rachel sighs in relief. “Yeah, sure. Take your time.”

 

She goes to sit outside again, brings an old pillow and a blanket. She’s almost smoked a whole pack by the time headlights round the corner. When Quinn approaches, Rachel holds up a half-smoked cigarette in greeting. Quinn takes it with a warm smile, their fingers brushing. Rachel stares up at Quinn, watches smoke curl from her mouth.

 

“Scoot over.” Quinn seems unnaturally tall as she motions for Rachel to move.

 

Rachel makes room on the pillow and lifts the blanket for Quinn. The woman makes a tired noise, rubbing at her ankles. Takes her heels off. Rachel smiles. When have they become so… entirely comfortable around one another? Quinn hands her the cigarette. She could get used to this, Rachel muses, and her smoke-filled lungs constrict in fear. She really could get used to this, Quinn coming home to her.

 

“So, where’s that wine?” Quinn grins at her, bumps their shoulders together. Rachel lets her head rest against Quinn briefly. “Oh, you’re ice cold,” Quinn gasps. Somehow, their hands have mingled on their own accord again.

 

“I’m fine,” Rachel coughs.

 

“Okay, let’s get you inside.”

 

Rachel tightens her grip on Quinn’s hand, doesn’t let her get up. “Did you end things with Chet?”

 

She doesn’t know where that came from, but suddenly, it’s the only thing Rachel can think of.

 

“What?” Quinn asks, clueless.

 

Rachel traces Quinn’s ringless finger with her own. Quinn gives her a look that is impossible to read. “I’m not wearing it, am I?” is all Quinn says. Rachel decides it’s best to drop it.

  
“Right, let’s get some wine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave a comment with where you think this is going i promise you cant even begin to imagine what syd is writing rn it will blow your minds aslkdfgh good NIGHT


	4. repeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quinn ends up back at the cabin, predictably, incredibly stressed out. rachel wants to take care of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally we hadn't planned anything specific for this chapter, so i had no idea what i was going to write. and then this happened. i hope it's as much fun to read as it was to write.

It takes less than two hours after Rachel leaves Quinn in her office for her phone to ring. And during that time, Quinn hasn’t been able to think about anything other than Rachel kissing her cheek. 

 

She feels like a teenager, her head all mixed up and incapable of thought not involving Rachel Goldberg. She tells Rachel to give her an hour, as though she’ll be able to focus well enough to finish anything by that point. After thirty minutes she gives up and gets in her car. She really is obsessed with her, apparently.

 

Quinn thinks about going to her house first, grabbing a few things for the night so she won’t have to bounce around before work tomorrow. She decides against it, not wanting to be presumptuous, not wanting to impose herself. There is a taut string pulling her towards that cabin, and any travel in the opposite direction might snap it. 

 

And anyway, if she does end up staying and doesn’t have her own pyjamas, she’ll get to sleep in one of Rachel’s shirts again. 

 

But that is absolutely not what is on Quinn’s mind. 

 

At the cabin, they sit on the porch for a while. Rachel says something about Chet, as though that’s even slightly important right now. As though that’s ever been even slightly important. Why is everyone accosting her about that stupid fucking ring? Quinn brushes it off. It’s the last thing she wants to think about. When Rachel feels her left hand for proof, Quinn’s heart flutters. 

 

Once again they find themselves sitting at the rickety table in the kitchen, glasses of wine in hand, talking about their days even though they spent them less than a minute away from each other. Rachel’s kitchen chairs are hard as hell — Quinn makes a mental note to pick up cushions at some point — yet she is perfectly comfortable. 

 

Maybe it isn’t what’s in her environment that dictates comfort, but who. 

 

During Rachel’s story about the closing interviews she’d done that afternoon, Quinn starts rubbing her right shoulder, and Rachel notices. 

 

“You okay?” she asks, head tilting. 

 

Quinn sighs. “Yeah, I’m fine, I was just at my desk doing paperwork all day. God, I’m getting old,” she says, stretching her neck to one side. 

 

“Never.” Rachel is looking at her in such a way that Quinn can feel heat rising to her cheeks, and she can’t keep eye contact. She blames it on the wine, though she’s barely had a few sips. When she glances up again, Rachel is still looking at her. 

 

“What, Goldberg? Out with it.”

 

“Why don’t… do you want to… have a bath?” 

 

Quinn shoots her an incredulous look, brows disappearing into her bangs. “Are you kidding me? In this crapshack?” Now it’s Rachel’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “No offence. Does this place even have running water?” 

 

“Yeah, for your information, it does, Quinn.” Rachel gets up from her chair. “Just… sit. You should relax, unwind a little.”

 

The only other person who has cared about Quinn’s mental state recently has been Fiona. But Fiona isn’t quite so soft with her, doesn’t look at her quite like that. 

 

She knows Rachel won’t drop it now that she has this idea in her head, and Quinn has no valid reason not to relent anyway.

 

When Rachel disappears to the bathroom, Quinn pulls out her phone. Among various work emails is a message from Fiona. A harshly worded condemnation about Chet — how did Fiona hear about that so quickly? — followed by inquiries about a bachelorette party. Quinn rolls her eyes and starts to make her way through her other emails, more pressing issues about the show and the network. Priorities. 

 

Rachel gives her a disapproving look when she comes back and sees Quinn on her phone. “No work, not tonight,” she instructs, taking her phone and putting it facedown on the table. Quinn starts to protest, but Rachel takes her hand and pulls her out of her chair and towards the bathroom. “Let me take care of you.” 

 

Quinn’s stomach usually twists at the thought of someone taking care of her, but that person being Rachel just gives her butterflies. 

 

In the bathroom, Quinn is greeted with a tub full of bubbly, lavender scented water. The bathtub itself, clawed feet sitting on the dingy tile floor, is practically the size of a small swimming pool. Despite its chipping paint and suspect stains, Quinn is ready to dive in fully clothed. 

 

But she keeps up her act of resistance as Rachel walks in behind her and puts her glass of wine on the floor beside the tub. 

 

“Really?” Quinn asks.

 

Rachel looks incredibly pleased with herself. “Really really.” She hovers by the door as though she wants to make sure Quinn actually gets in.

 

“Well, are you going to get out, Goldie, or are you waiting for a show?” Quinn teases. At that, Rachel looks down and waltzes out, only half as flustered as Quinn was aiming for.

 

She closes the door behind Rachel, noting the lack of a lock. 

 

Quinn peels her dress off and drops it on the floor, followed by her spanx and lingerie. Every layer off is like coming undone a bit more. Every layer off in a space that isn’t her own usually makes it harder for Quinn to breathe, but here she feels at ease. That lavender stuff must be pretty damn strong. 

 

Slowly, Quinn lowers herself into the water. Almost scalding, but bearable. And God, it feels so good. She stretches her legs out. Quinn is a small person, but this bathtub really is huge. Big enough for two people, actually. She doesn’t let herself linger on that thought.

 

She hesitates before rubbing her makeup off. Her last layer. 

 

And somehow, miraculously, chronically wound-up Quinn just… zones out. 

 

When she finally opens her eyes again, her fingers are pruned and her muscles feel like jello. It’s only now that Quinn notices the empty hooks on the back of the door where there should be towels. She scans the rest of the bathroom, but can’t see any. _Fuck_.

 

“Uh, Rachel?” she calls, ignoring the weird subconscious urge to be yelling it through a walkie. 

 

Footsteps down the hall, outside the door, and then, “Yeah?”

 

“There’s no towel in here, you idiot.”

 

“Oh, fuck, sorry. Give me a sec.” Quinn hears a closet open and close, and then a soft rap on the bathroom door. “So should I, uh, should I just leave it—” 

 

“You can come in and hand it to me, Goldberg.” 

 

A sheepish Rachel appears from behind the door. She catches Quinn’s eye briefly before her gaze drifts lower, and Quinn realizes that all the bubbles have dissipated. 

 

She resists the impulse to throw an arm across her chest, and instead snaps, “Rachel, stop looking at me as though you’ve never seen a pair of tits in your entire life and give me the damn towel.” 

 

Rachel’s mouth opens and snaps shut again. She places the towel into Quinn’s outstretched arm and leaves something on the floor beside her discarded clothing, eyeing her lingerie before scurrying back out. 

 

Quinn drains the bath, dries herself off, and picks up what Rachel left her. Another oversized t-shirt and a pair of boxers. And a toothbrush. 

 

When Quinn is done in the bathroom, Rachel is already in bed, matching in a similar set of non-pyjamas. 

 

“I gotta hand it to you, Rachel,” Quinn says, taking the towel off of her still damp hair before sliding into bed beside her, “that was… really nice. I can’t remember the last time I took a bath.” 

 

Rachel beams at her, and Quinn’s heart somersaults. Suddenly they’re both giggling like idiots; at themselves, at each other, at this situation, at the fact that they’re both lying in a tiny bed that allows at most a fraction of an inch of space between them, noses practically touching. 

 

Quinn reaches out to brush a stray lock of hair that has fallen across Rachel’s face. She lets her fingers graze Rachel’s neck, briefly. 

 

Time stands still for a few seconds before Rachel instructs, “Turn over.”

 

“What?” 

 

“Just do it.”

 

Quinn doesn’t know why she obliges this strange request, but she’s never been able to say no to Rachel for very long. She doesn’t even give it a second thought before turning over. 

 

Quinn feels Rachel’s knees on either side of her body and a weight on her pelvis. Her entire body tenses up because holy shit, Rachel Goldberg is straddling her. Either seconds or hours later, she feels Rachel’s hands on her shoulders, kneading and squeezing. 

 

“Quinn, you need to relax your body.”

 

“For fuck’s sake, Rachel, I’m relaxing, I’m relaxing.” As though Quinn could ever fully relax when she’s so hyper-aware of Rachel’s thighs on the sides of her hips. She tries her best to unclench all of her muscles, but Quinn has never been good at physical contact like this. Not when it might mean something that she still hasn’t allowed herself to name. And Rachel is quite literally on top of her. “What is with your sudden obsession with pampering me? You’re not trying to butter me up for something, are you?”

 

Quinn can’t see Rachel’s face, but she can hear the smirk in her voice when she says, “Maybe.” 

 

She can’t help but wonder if Rachel has some ulterior motive here, if she’s getting something from being in control, from having her boss pinned underneath her. Quinn tries to ignore the rush that thought gives her.

 

“Look, Quinn, you spend practically all your time being tense. It’s not good for you, I’m pretty sure there are, like, negative long term effects of that. You deserve to let go of all of that for one night.” 

 

“Well… shut up and get to it, then. Oh, that feels good.” Quinn has to stifle an involuntary moan, and Rachel’s thumbs dig deeper into the knot in her shoulder in response. 

 

Rachel’s hands are small but surprisingly strong, and seem to know exactly where to press and rub. She makes her way down Quinn’s back, slowly, stopping just before the waistband of her borrowed boxers. 

 

Then, without warning Rachel’s hands slip underneath Quinn’s shirt — Rachel’s own shirt on Quinn’s body — and the feeling of skin on skin sends electric shocks up Quinn’s spine. Rachel moves back up the way she came, and consequently Quinn’s shirt rides up inch by inch as she does. 

 

When she gets to the midway point on her back, Quinn sighs and just pulls her shirt all the way off. “Better?” she asks, dropping it on the floor. 

 

She hears Rachel’s breath catch, hears her clear her throat. “Mhm, better.” 

 

So she continues, and they both pretend to be oblivious to the fact that Quinn is lying half naked while Rachel straddles her on the bed. It should be awkward, but Quinn doesn’t know when she last felt so comfortable baring so much skin to anyone in one day, allowing herself to be touched like this. And by someone she  _ knows _ , not some random masseuse she’ll never interact with again after. 

 

Quinn doesn’t know how long it goes on for, but when Rachel’s hands retire, her back is pleasantly sore and tingly and her whole body feels heavy with sleep. 

 

“Done,” Rachel says softly, swinging her leg back over and lying down beside Quinn.

 

All Quinn can manage is a muffled “can’t move,” her face squished against her pillow. Rachel exhales out her nose in a quiet laugh. Quinn is too tired at this point to even register that putting a shirt back on is something she should do. 

 

The last thing Quinn is conscious of before falling asleep is Rachel’s fingers, softly drawing shapes on her bare back. 

  
  
  
  


When Quinn wakes up sometime later, she’s on her back and Rachel’s hand is dangerously high on her abdomen. Which is fine, until Quinn remembers she’s not wearing a top. 

 

She freezes. In the time it takes Quinn to come back to her senses, Rachel shifts and her palm comes to rest on her sternum, thumb and pinky causing goosebumps to rise on Quinn’s chest. She is incredibly conscious of every individual, baby soft hair on Rachel’s forearm. 

 

Quinn turns her head to look at Rachel, making sure she’s asleep. Gently, as not to wake her, Quinn lifts Rachel’s arm and places it by her side. She gets a sleepy, disgruntled noise in response. Quinn feels around the floor beside the bed for a minute before retrieving her shirt and putting it back on. 

 

As soon as Quinn lies back down, Rachel’s arm is back across her stomach. Rachel pulls herself closer, buries her face in Quinn’s neck. 

 

Quinn has no problem falling back asleep, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don’t think i ever properly introduced myself but! i’m syd and when i’m not screaming about kingsgold with effy, i’m usually screaming about them on tumblr (lattefoam.tumblr.com) and you should come join me.  
>  also, if you’re as obsessed as we are, you should listen to our collaborative, 7 hour long kingsgold playlist which you can find on spotify and apple music (also both lattefoam).  
> thanks for reading!!! stay tuned to find out what, if anything, this whole ordeal means for quinn and rachel.


	5. reassess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a tender morning. a bad day at work. a reassessment of the situation, maybe. freckles, grey hairs and stars.

 

**Chapter V - Reassess**

 

Sunlight filters softly through Rachel’s bedroom window. It scatters and spills all over Quinn’s skin, dust particles whirring through the air where nothing but a few beams of light separate Rachel’s face from Quinn’s. 

 

The whole cabin smells faintly of lavender. 

 

Rachel’s heart is already skipping beats before she’s all the way awake. The erratic buzzing of her pulse jerks her from lucid dreams full of bubbles and naked skin, and she rubs the images from her eyes, stifling a yawn. 

 

Everything around her is impossibly warm. Warm in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. She feels like she’s inside a fluffy cloud in the summer sky.

 

The skin of Quinn’s shoulder is sprinkled with a garden of freckles. 

 

Rachel’s finger twitches. She lifts a steady hand, surprised only slightly that her inner shakiness isn’t translating to her muscles. Then again, she’s always been good at hiding things.

 

Quinn’s skin is warm under the tip of Rachel’s index finger. 

 

She touches a freckle, and then another, maps out constellations on the woman’s arm. Rachel keeps her touch so light it’s barely there as to not disturb Quinn’s slumber. She looks so relaxed. All softness and warmth. Memories of that same softness and warmth sitting in her bathtub, hand stretched out for a towel, flood Rachel’s mind. It has her head spinning.

 

And Quinn had slipped into bed wearing Rachel’s baggy clothes, wet-haired. Soft couldn’t even begin to describe that. Soft came nowhere close to describing Quinn’s skin under Rachel’s palms, tense muscles and all. So soft.

 

By the time Rachel feels fully awake, her brain is mush. She has counted 31 freckles. She pushes both of her hands under the side of her own face to stop herself. She shuts her eyes.

 

Next to her, Quinn stirs, starts stretching and shifting into wakefulness.

 

When Rachel opens her eyes again, Quinn is brushing her hair all the way back. Air-dried but still a bit damp, Quinn’s hair fluffs about in waves and small curls. Quinn’s hand has collected her bangs, brushed them back off her forehead. Rachel has never seen her like this before. Instinctively, she reaches out to follow Quinn’s hand with her own. 

 

Quinn turns her head to make curious eye contact, drops her own hand. 

 

“Morning,” Rachel mumbles distractedly, running her fingers through the underside of Quinn’s bangs where tiny strands of grey glitter in the morning sun. Her stomach tumbles and twitches at the realisation that this kind of intimacy has somehow, quietly and without notice, become not off-limits for them. 

 

Rachel smiles, and Quinn, still half asleep, smiles back. Mumbles something half-yawned like “good morning.” 

 

“I didn’t know you had any grey hairs,” Rachel mutters, stroking a particularly light strand all the way from its base to its end. When Quinn does her hair, straightened and hair sprayed into place, none of this is visible. So this, this softness… Rachel swallows, hard. Quinn is still giving her that questioning look but hasn’t moved away from Rachel’s touch. So, once again, Rachel stops herself. She buries her hands under her head. Gives Quinn a sheepish look. 

 

“I haven’t bothered to dye them, they’re under my bangs anyway,” Quinn explains with an expression like a shrug on her face, and a new wave of warmth rushes all the way through Rachel’s body until her cheeks are aflame. This Quinn, unfiltered and delicately streaked with silver, freckled skin clear of makeup with her bangs pushed back, is softer than cotton. Softer than sunlight. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They still drive to work separately in their respective cars. 

 

Which makes sense, because they don’t live together. They’re not  _ together _ . Rachel shakes her head to rid it of straying thoughts.

 

Just because Quinn stayed over two nights in a row doesn’t mean anything. And the fact that they’ve developed ten times more genuine intimacy over the course of two days (two nights, two mornings) than any of Rachel’s past romantic relationships ever had, doesn’t mean anything either. 

 

None of this should mean anything, Rachel thinks, but can’t help smiling quietly into the rearview mirror where Quinn’s car pulls into a parking spot near set behind her. 

 

Her smile falters quickly when another car approaches and Chet jumps out, a broad, dumb grin on his face as he tumbles towards Quinn. 

 

Rachel doesn’t get out of her car, doesn’t feel like her knees would let her.

 

Quinn hasn’t spotted him yet and starts walking towards set when Chet jogs up, puts a hand on the small of her back. Rachel balls her hands into fists again. Closes her eyes. Thinks back to her hands right there, trailing up and down Quinn’s spine, tense muscles relaxing and turning soft like butter. Quinn looks so tense now, like all of Rachel’s work is undone by Chet’s touch immediately. 

 

Later during the day, when Rachel is left with nothing to do but doesn’t have it in her to leave just yet, she sees Quinn rushing down the stairs to the pool, and before she can drop her cigarette and call out her name Quinn has disappeared through doors that slam shut behind her. Even from the far side of the pool she could see that the softness has gone from Quinn’s shoulders entirely, replaced with nervous tightness. She wants to blame Chet, wants to relish in the thought that he’s making her tense and she’s doing the opposite, but her mind feels blank. Why is he even here?

 

Rachel goes to grab another smoke but the pack is empty. She crushes it in her hand and tosses it to the ground. She really hasn’t had much to do today. Her whole being itches to produce again, and this hiatus is leaving too much room for her to consider other things, like why is Chet here, and why does she care so much?

 

She wanders in the direction of Quinn’s office.

 

When she gets there, the door is pulled shut. Rachel hears voices, Quinn’s and Chet’s. They’re quiet. No fighting, no arguing. Rachel’s jaw clenches. Her abdomen is in tightly wound knots. 

 

The door opens. Chet halts. Gives her his hollow smile, a mix between pity and the usual confusion in his eyes. He blinks his eyes at her, nods, and leaves, taking a look back over his shoulder with a broader grin directed towards Quinn.

 

Rachel gapes at his disappearing form. And then at Quinn, who has stepped around her desk and is now staring at the floor in front of her. 

 

“What’s he doing here?” Rachel asks, stepping into Quinn’s office and closing the door behind herself. 

 

Quinn looks up, a flicker of eye contact, and then averts her gaze to roll her eyes and stare at something invisible on the wall. “He’s just checking in, Rachel, what do you care.”

 

Rachel’s forehead creases in a frown. Right, what does she care? No. Actually, she gets to care. The woman has been sleeping in her bed for two nights, she gets to care. She has a right to know what’s going on. And Quinn seems on edge.

 

“Just checking in? On what, his show? Or his… his…” Fiancée? Ex fiancée? Rachel realises that she doesn’t know, at all, what’s going on. “Are you still with him?” she continues, and there is venom in her voice as she spits out the question. “Are you still  _ engaged _ ?”

 

Now, Quinn is staring back at her. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Quinn’s arms move, hands coming up in half a shrug like she doesn’t know either. She steps into Rachel’s personal space, instead. And doesn’t say a word.

 

“Quinn,” Rachel starts. She wants to run away. She wants to pull Quinn closer. She doesn’t know what she wants. She thinks back to 31 freckles and how they spell out poetry across Quinn’s shoulder. Her heart flutters, her head spins. In a daze, Rachel touches at Quinn’s blouse, there. She strokes a thumb over the same muscles, a barrier of satin separating her from softer-than-satin skin.

 

“What are we doing?” she asks, but isn’t sure who she’s addressing.   
  


“What do you mean what are we doing, we’re not doing anything,” Quinn hisses, flinches like the words burn. She moves away from Rachel’s touch to pour herself a glass of vodka. Rachel can’t breathe, suddenly. She feels like she’s suffocating, air thick with unnamed tension. Every unspoken feeling hangs between them like a heavy layer of rain clouds. Rachel can feel tears welling up behind her eyes.    
  


Quinn empties her glass in one long swig, her eyes sliding shut as she knocks back her head. Then, she blinks at Rachel, something like guilt in her eyes, an expression so unfamiliar to Quinn’s face that Rachel has trouble deciphering it. 

 

“I mean,” Rachel tries, voice breaking. She takes a deep breath. “You sleep in my bed,” and Rachel doesn’t even think about the fact that this is the first time she’s acknowledging any of it. The guilt on Quinn’s face turns into a warning.

 

“You come home to me like Chet doesn’t exist,” Rachel chokes out, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. The thought of Quinn going home to Chet makes her sick to her stomach. But, with the look Quinn is giving her right now, Rachel doesn’t even have to ask. “You’re still engaged,” she simply states, “you didn’t break it off.”

 

Quinn pours herself another drink. Her eyes look empty, any emotion hidden again. 

 

“Why would I?” 

 

Behind the icy stare Quinn is giving her, beneath the layers of emotionlessness coating the woman’s tone of voice, Rachel thinks she sees desperation. It clenches a cold fist all the way around Rachel’s heart. It sounds like,  _ give me a reason. _ It knocks Rachel backwards like a physical thing. 

 

Quinn goes on. “I slept over twice, Rachel, because you asked. It’s not like I moved in with you. Don’t make this into something it isn’t.”

 

“Right,” Rachel blurts out. “I can’t believe I thought we were at a point where you wouldn’t lie to me about being fucking engaged. But what was I thinking, right?” Rachel starts stumbling backwards, heading towards the door. Quinn just frowns at her, continues sipping her drink. 

 

“I didn’t lie,” she says. “What are you talking about?”

 

It feels like the ground is slipping from under Rachel’s feet. How could she possibly have been this stupid? What did she expect?

 

“You didn’t wear the ring,” she exclaims, runs her hands through her hair and wants to rip it out. “Really, Quinn? Chet? After everything?”

 

Quinn flops down on the sofa with a sigh, kicking her shoes off. It almost makes Rachel stop crying. 

 

“You can’t be serious,” Rachel laughs bitterly through tears. “Him?”

 

The walls that go up around Quinn feel insurmountable. The look on her face, no remnant of softness. 

 

Rachel can hear the “it’s none of your business” coming the moment Quinn opens her mouth. 

 

“You know what,” Rachel interrupts Quinn before she can form the words. “Sure, fine, whatever! Marry him. Do whatever you want. But don’t come and sleep in my bed when he disappoints you again. And you and I both know he will.”

 

Rachel’s stomach has become one big knot. She needs to get away from this. She needs to leave because if she lets herself dwell on the fact that this means that she’s going home to an empty bed, she is going to fall apart completely in Quinn’s office. She can’t look at her right now. 

 

So, she leaves. 

 

Rachel slams Quinn’s office door shut behind herself loudly.

 

She speeds all the way back to her cabin. 

 

She lies down flat on her back in damp grass a few feet away from it like the cabin and the porch would electrocute her if she came too close right now. She stares up at the night sky. It’s gotten dark enough to see the stars. Rachel blinks back fresh tears and tries not to compare the constellations to the freckles on Quinn’s skin. 

 

She takes a shaky breath in. 

  
The stars don’t compare.


	6. run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> real life is getting too real, so quinn runs. denial and a drunk phone call from hundreds of miles away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we are getting into some SERIOUS tension now ladies!!! strap in!!!!!

That night is hard, without Rachel. Quinn tosses and turns in her bed — king sized, her own inside joke with herself. Only with herself, because she’d never let anyone else sleep in this bed with her. Not even Chet.

 

Now, her bed feels much too large. Much too empty.

 

And Quinn can’t sleep.

 

All she can see when she closes her eyes is the look on Rachel’s face when she realized Quinn hasn’t done anything about Chet. Hear the anger, the pain in Rachel’s voice. The betrayal.

 

But it isn’t a betrayal, Quinn tells herself. She hasn’t lied to Rachel. She doesn’t owe her anything. Right?

 

But this gnawing feeling in her stomach keeping her awake is worse than any other time she has lost sleep over Rachel, guilt-ridden. Not that she would ever admit that, though.

 

The next morning, every fibre in Quinn’s body is telling her she can’t go back to set today. She can’t face Rachel, see her warm doe eyes turned cold on Quinn.

 

Even though Quinn owes her nothing and it’s none of her business.

 

So she decides to fly down to LA for the day, drop in on Fiona. And it’s not avoidance, Quinn tells herself, because there’s nothing to avoid. She has a couple ideas to run by Fiona anyway.

 

Later, she finds Fiona in her brand new matriarchal bullshit office, refreshingly Gary-free. It takes mere minutes before Quinn realizes her mistake.

 

“ _CHET_?” Fiona’s raised voice sends vibrations through Quinn’s body, and she moves to shut the door before half the network overhears Fiona’s every loud thought about her life decisions.

 

Quinn’s hand finds her forehead, tries to rub away the already forming ache.

 

“It’s not….” She struggles to find the end of her sentence.

 

“Not what?” Fiona chimes in. “Not smart? Not rational? Not a good idea? Not something that would ever be considered by anyone in the universe even a little bit good for you?”

 

“Okay!” Quinn groans, head thrown back in exasperation. “Look, it’s not even a big deal—”

 

“Not a big deal? Quinn, in what world would planning to marry someone not be a big deal?”

 

“I haven’t even really seen him these past few days anyway, it’s… I don’t know.”

 

The reality of the situation chooses this moment to hit Quinn fully. She has no idea what she’s doing, and suddenly it feels like she’s drowning. So she reaches for whatever she can, grasps at wisps that might pull her up, and push everything back down until it feels like nothing.

 

“I’ve been staying with Rachel.” Fresh air.

 

This is probably the wrong piece of information to have revealed just then, because the look that Fiona gives Quinn somehow simultaneously sends her heart fluttering up her throat and her stomach down to the floor.

 

“You’ve been staying with Rachel. Where? I thought you told me she lived in that tiny trailer on your set.” Behind Fiona’s narrowed eyes Quinn can see her picturing her and Rachel curled up on that small, uncomfortable makeshift bed.

 

She’s not entirely off base, Quinn thinks, just in a slightly different setting.

 

She brushes the thought away and clears her throat. “No, actually. I, uh… I bought her a place. A cabin.”

 

Fiona nods knowingly, and it infuriates Quinn. “So let me get this straight. You bought Rachel a cabin. To live in. And you, Quinn King, have been staying there with her. In a cabin.”

 

Quinn’s jaw is clenched. She turns her head away from Fiona.

 

“Don’t you know how that sounds?”

 

“How that _sounds_ ? How _what_ sounds?”

 

Fiona’s grin turns into a look of genuine concern. “Quinn… are you really sure you want to marry Chet?” When Quinn doesn’t respond, can’t respond, Fiona continues. “Because it seems like you and Rachel are….”

 

“Me and Rachel? What? Me and Rachel are what?”

 

“Quinn, really?” Fiona scoffs. “I was… curious… about you two when I first visited, but this is something else. It sounds a lot like there’s something going on there.”

 

It takes what feels like hours for the words to reach Quinn’s ears, for her brain to process them. She’s wondered about that too, of course she has. There’s almost no other explanation for everything she does, everything she feels for Rachel. But everything about their nights in that cabin has been so private, wrapped up in their own little world, wrapped up in each other. A bubble where they can let go and allow themselves to just… be. It’s the only place Quinn has ever felt so free and relaxed, especially around Rachel.

 

Like home.

 

Hearing Fiona talk about it in such a serious way makes it real. Quinn can’t handle it being real outside of their bubble, where the rest of her life leeches in like pollution. So she panics.

 

“I don’t even know where to start with that. There is nothing _going on_ between me and Rachel. We are friends. She’s the most important person in my life. But it’s not… I’m not gay. And anyways, I know she doesn’t feel that way about me, so.” It’s an open-ended sentence, but Quinn leaves it, because she’s having trouble reconciling what she’s saying with the fact that she can’t stop thinking about how it felt to have Rachel straddling her.

 

Fiona sits back in her chair and looks at Quinn with an irritating mixture of amusement and pity. “So that night when we ran into each other at Vixen, and I asked you what you’d been up to and all you could talk about was Rachel — that meant nothing? Didn’t you tell me, a couple shots later, that you went and slept with that guy August after seeing Rachel flirt with him? I believe your exact words when I asked you why were: ‘because she’s _my_ girl.’”

 

Quinn’s memory of that night is clouded in a haze of vodka and neon lights. Many of her nights over the past few weeks have been dripping with vodka, actually. She can’t remember specifically what she told Fiona, lips loose with alcohol and her high from royally fucking Gary over, but it was probably something like that. At least, that’s what had been going through her head.

 

She tries to come up with an acidic retort, but she can’t. She stares at Fiona dumbly.

 

“I’m just saying, Quinn. You’re smart, but you must be pretty stupid if you can’t see what’s going on here.”

 

“There’s….” Quinn forces out a dry, derisive laugh. “We’re not….”

 

The teasing amusement is gone from Fiona’s face now. “Seriously, Quinn?”

 

She’s had enough of this. This is a conversation she can’t have, because it’s one she can’t win. Quinn has barely admitted any of this to herself, and for someone else — for Fiona in particular — to be saying these things to her sends sparks through her brain until it short-circuits. Quinn doesn’t know how to react to an adverse situation except with defiance.

 

“Fiona, listen to me very clearly. Rachel and I are _not_ in love, or whatever you’re suggesting. So stop looking at me like that. And none of this matters, because I’m marrying Chet.” Quinn spits out the words, but they still leave a sour taste in her mouth.

 

“Well, I can’t say I approve. But in that case, I have a killer bachelorette party to plan.”

  


 

 

 

Fiona all but forces Quinn to stay with her in LA for a few days to unwind. She teasingly challenges Quinn to see how long she can go Rachel-free.

 

Quinn makes it almost 48 hours.

 

It is almost definitely a mistake to suggest Fiona take her bar hopping. But Quinn still hasn’t learned that history repeats itself, and where there is alcohol involved there will be thoughts and actions and words that she doesn’t have control over.

 

More specifically, thoughts pertaining to Rachel that usually turn into actions, teetering dangerously close to the edge of being put into words.

 

Every shot of vodka stings less, starts to feel warmer. Feels like relief, eventually becomes release. Quinn finds herself with her phone in hand, not even hesitating before tapping Rachel’s name.

 

Quinn’s chest feels heavier with every ring. She knows Rachel is on the other end, staring at her screen. Just when Quinn is about to scream and throw her phone across the bathroom she’s hidden in, the line picks up.

 

Rachel doesn’t say anything, but Quinn can hear her breathing from a few hundred miles away, and that’s all she needs.

 

“Rachel.” It’s an exhale, barely above a whisper.

 

A pause, and then, “Quinn.”

 

She thinks she could cry, hearing Rachel say her name, even if it’s hardened and lacking warmth. Quinn takes a deep breath, realizing she doesn’t actually have anything to say to her.

 

Or, rather, she has million things she desperately wants to tell Rachel, needs to tell her, all of which are currently fighting their way up Quinn’s throat. Luckily Rachel fills the silence.

 

“Quinn, where have you been? Where did you go?” She thinks she can hear the desperation underneath Rachel’s anger.

 

“I’m in LA.”

 

“Oh. With Fiona.” Rachel’s voice is flat. “Figures.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

 

“It’s just so typical of you. To run away whenever there’s a conflict you don’t want to face. Did you even tell Chet where you were going? You know, since he’s your soon-to-be-husband and everything? No, wait, why would you. It’s not like you told him where you were when you were hiding from your problems and sleeping in my bed, right?” Rachel laughs cruelly.

 

At that, Quinn swallows, hard. And then drunkenly directs her internal anger outwards.

 

“You know what, I am so sick of people telling me what my problem is! What I can and can’t do, who I can and can’t marry. It doesn’t affect you, Rachel.”

 

“Yes it does!” Quinn’s next argument gets caught in her throat. Another pause. “I’ll… I’ll have to see you both at work every day, and it’ll be you two against me, and….”

 

“We were together for ten years before this, Rachel, how does this change anything?”  


“Because it’s different now!”

 

What she isn’t saying, what Quinn knows she means, is that they’re different now. Their relationship has shifted. “And this is real,” Rachel adds. “You can’t let him walk all over you again.”

 

“But it’s my decision! I went back to him!” Desperate, angry, hopeless, drunk, Quinn yells, “You left!”

 

Maybe it’s because they’re hours away from each other right now, separated by half a state, maybe it’s because Quinn feels safer when Rachel can’t see her like this, can’t dismantle Quinn’s walls by physical contact — but the words come easier. For both of them.

 

Rachel half screams, “But I came back! To you! And you lied to me!”

 

It’s like Quinn can feel Rachel’s hurt and anger through the radio waves entering her phone, and she has to hold it away from her face. It’s only when she sees wet streaks on the screen that she realizes she’s crying.

 

Several deep breaths later, Rachel continues. “You’re constantly telling me why I shouldn’t be with the men that I’m dating. God, you’ve done everything to ruin my relationships.”

 

“Yes, but I was trying to protect you, Rachel, to do what’s best for you-”

 

“I’m trying to protect _you_!”

 

“Well, don’t. I can take care of myself.”

 

“Clearly you can’t, Quinn! Otherwise you wouldn’t be doing this! God, you’re driving me fucking crazy!”

 

Something about the way Rachel said it ignited a different fire inside of Quinn. She squeezes her eyes shut at images of Rachel, angry and combative, that have made their way to the forefront of her drunken mind. Incapable of applying any sort of filter to what she’s saying at this point, she starts, “I swear to God, Rachel, if you were here right now I would-”

 

“What, Quinn? You would what?”

 

But Quinn can’t say what, because Rachel’s voice is full of nervous anticipation and the only thing she can picture right now is pushing Rachel up against a wall and-

 

The line almost crackles with the tension between them.

 

“Look, Quinn. One time I got mad at you and said something like, ‘God forbid I make my own mistakes’. This is me trying to prevent you from making this huge, colossal mistake. I get it now. Remember when you sabotaged me running away with Adam? That’s what I’m trying to do for you.” Rachel’s voice is softer now. Quinn presses the phone against her cheek harder, thinks of Rachel’s palm. “Please.”

 

But as usual, someone telling Quinn not to do something only further pushes her _to_ do it. Even when it’s Rachel, pleading.

 

“I… I have to go, Rachel. Fiona is waiting for me.”

 

Rachel says nothing. It hurts more than all the yelling combined.

 

A beep, and then Rachel is gone.


	7. ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Quinn knocks, Rachel can't help but let her in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooo friends the slow burn has burned so slowly let's add some delicious speed with an additional pinch of angst :~) enjoy!

 

Rachel hasn’t slept.

 

The hiatus of Everlasting has officially left her with nothing to do at this point, no finishing touches to do for the past season and no more preparing for the new one. And Rachel can’t sleep.

 

Her days have started coming to a blend, hazy from bottles of wine (white, now. Red reminds her too much of nights spent less alone). 

 

The harsh light of day makes her feel fuzzy around the edges. 

 

Quinn’s harsh voice over the phone. And worse, the sound of it cracking. 

 

Frayed, that’s how Rachel feels. Like falling apart.

 

It has only been a few days, but Rachel has lost track of time completely. Uprooted, she tries to anchor herself meditating, feels herself thinking back fondly to the dull hum brought by self-medicating. 

 

She’s losing her grip again, and Rachel knows it’s bad, and Rachel knows Quinn is a bad reason. 

 

She never should’ve let herself get used to the idea of getting to keep her around like that.

 

She never should’ve let her in, into her bed, into her home. Rachel glances angrily at her front door in all its symbolic significance.

 

Rachel feels her stomach twist at the thought that even that door itself was given to her by Quinn in the first place, and then it twists some more when she realises she hasn’t eaten much all day. But she just can’t be bothered to cook for herself, or even go to the store, so she’s living on toast and ramen noodles mostly. 

 

There is a very quiet knock on her door, so quiet, the rational part of Rachel’s brain says she’s imagined it, too fixated on the door-shaped metaphor she’s been contemplating. Her gut, however, un-twists.  _ Quinn _ . 

 

Before Rachel can let go of the breath she’s been holding, there’s another, significantly louder knock, and then a set of three more, almost angry. 

 

Relief washes over her. And her foolish, foolish mind says,  _ she’s come to her senses. She’s ended things with him, she’s coming _ -

 

No. No more. She won’t let herself go there, not this time. She briefly contemplates not letting her in at all. Tears well up in her eyes when she realises that shutting Quinn out is the last thing she wants to do. Quinn knocks, and Rachel lets her in, that’s how this goes. She just lets her in.

 

She tears open the door almost violently to make up for the air of defeat around her movements. And there stands Quinn, plastic bags full of takeout in both hands, an unreadable expression on her face.

 

“What do you want,” Rachel manages to say in a flat voice, almost no wavering. 

 

She doesn’t want to look at Quinn, but can’t help the way the woman’s presence shines through the haze that’s been separating Rachel from the rest of the world these past few days.

 

“You need to eat,” Quinn states plainly. Normally, she’d just brush past Rachel and take off her heels, but they’ve long foregone normal, and in Rachel’s doorway is a new invisible wall between them. So Quinn stands there, outside, two bags of takeout and a million unspoken words between her and Rachel. Nothing is normal anymore.

 

“No.” Rachel feels bile rising in her throat. This is a strange thing now, saying no to Quinn, the word doesn’t taste right on her tongue. 

 

“Yes, you do. Come on.”

 

And Quinn’s voice is raspy, like maybe her throat is a little raw too, and soft, like maybe there’s an apology waiting to come out. But there’s also this icy look in her eyes and a forced tightness to her posture that still intimidates but no longer convinces Rachel of strength. 

 

“Please, Rachel, I’m worried about you.”

 

The words sting, because no, clearly, Quinn can’t be too worried if she disappears for days without a word only to call and yell at her over the phone, but Rachel takes a step back anyway, eyebrows risen. And she remembers vividly how yelling back and forth over a phone had tugged at something desperate and needy deep inside Rachel, reminding her exactly why she should never do this, again. Let her in, again.

  
  
  


They eat in silence.

 

Comfortable silence, Rachel has to admit, and doesn’t understand how. How they’re still stuck, still exactly where they’ve always been. She wants to continue where they left off on the phone but can’t find the energy to repeat herself. She’s so tired. 

 

She hasn’t slept. Quinn looks tired, too. Bags under her eyes, the lines around her mouth more pronounced. Either Fiona really did a number on her, or Rachel isn’t the only one who can’t get enough rest in an empty bed. She doesn’t want to hope for it being the latter. She really doesn’t want to. 

 

But she’s also very tired of the ugly nagging of jealousy at the thought of Fiona showing Quinn a good time, so Rachel chooses to believe that Quinn is hungover and sleep deprived because she’s missed her, too. 

 

So, Rachel allows herself to feel, well, whatever it is that she feels as she observes Quinn frowning at her food. The silence is comfortable but inside Rachel’s head, the screaming continues. Her thoughts spin in circles, repeating arguments she’s repeated before. 

 

The frustration claws its way through her veins, spreads in her chest like fire. 

 

Warmth. 

 

She hates how, now that Quinn is sitting across from her at the kitchen table, none of the anger wants to come out. Cautiously, it ducks, cooking her slowly from the inside until she’s all gooey. She feels angry and warm and soft, sitting across from Quinn.

 

“God,” Rachel mumbles, and Quinn looks up at Rachel shooting daggers from her eyes. Like a deer caught in headlights, she stares back. The daggers hit, and Rachel’s throat closes up.  _ God, you’ve ruined my life _ . And she can’t even say it. Because right now, Quinn, with all her stubborn anger, looks so small. Before she sat down her shoes had come off, and somehow, that’s still the most debilitatingly intimate thing for Rachel. It makes her crave Quinn in her bed in the most innocent ways possible, the same way that she’s so, so tired. 

 

Rachel’s limbs move on their own. She clears the table, pours red wine. Puts a full glass in front of Quinn like a peace offering. They take a few sips each before Rachel gets up again, restless legs carrying her towards bed as her heart hammers wildly, so close to escaping a heaving rib-cage. Halfway there, she stops. She turns her head, makes eye contact with Quinn. Salty oceans crash against Rachel’s lashes, spilling down her cheeks. 

 

In a steady voice, she says, “Please.”

 

She can see her own expression reflected on Quinn’s face, brows knit together painfully, cheeks wet. 

 

Rachel gasps when Quinn buries her face in visibly shaky hands, a gesture so unlike any part of Quinn known to the rest of the world. With a sigh, the woman gets up. Wipes the tears from under her eyes. Every muscle of Rachel’s body starts to turn into jello. She barely makes it to her bed before collapsing, physically and emotionally drained.

 

The mattress dips, and Rachel takes a deep, shuddering breath. This kind of closeness, this is what she’s been missing, what she’s been angry about the most. Quinn’s scent lulls her in like a drug. All of Rachel’s senses scream for more. She opens her eyes, thinks briefly about how bloodshot and puffy they must be at this point, but doesn’t let them stray from the woman sliding under the covers beside her. Her heart aches. Her hands ache. 

 

“I missed you,” Rachel admits in a whisper. They’re on either side of the small bed, not touching anywhere but facing each other, eyes fixed on each other. 

 

“I’m not leaving him,” Quinn reminds her in response, and the words shatter into a million pieces on their way to Rachel’s brain, have lost their meaning a long time ago, and all that’s left is Quinn’s voice sounding exactly as desperate as Rachel’s own and the space between their bodies humming with tension.

 

There are fresh tears spilling from Quinn’s eyes, rolling down the bridge of her nose, her temple. Rachel makes a breathy noise, tries to remind herself of anger but feels warm, soft, warm, soft… 

 

Warm, soft skin under the palm of Rachel’s hand. She runs the pad of her thumb over damp skin. Her mind is half asleep already, high on Quinn’s presence. When she realises what she’s doing, Rachel jerks back.

 

This is the moment, she thinks. This is when it all gets ruined. For the first time she isn’t ignoring this need to touch Quinn, isn’t letting Quinn ignore this. For the first time, Rachel is taking control, holding herself back, and this is how she gives herself away.

 

Quinn’s eyes go wide. Rachel lets her own slide shut. 

 

Then, touch. Quinn’s hand around her wrist, pulling her closer. 

 

Breathless and completely still, Rachel blinks. 

 

Quinn isn’t running. 

 

Rachel watches Quinn watching her. 

 

Rachel watches Quinn inch closer in one slow, fluid motion. Her lungs are still frozen when Quinn’s breath hits her mouth. Like someone drowning, Rachel parts her lips and sucks in Quinn’s air.

 

Parted lips brush open mouth. 

 

Open mouthed, Rachel inhales more of Quinn’s air, sharply, in a gasp. 

 

The softness has Rachel shivering, and Quinn shivers against her. Rachel flutters kisses where Quinn is gasping in return. Quickly, the softness is breathed away and Rachel can’t help put press a kiss like a cry against Quinn’s soft, soft lips, so hard she can feel teeth behind them, so hard that she furrows her brows in agony. 

 

This is agony, and Rachel knows nothing will ever be enough to soothe the kind of bruises they will leave on each other. They kiss hard, crushing every line they’ve ever tried to draw between themselves between already swollen lips. Rachel pushes herself closer, presses her mouth to Quinn’s harder but Quinn only pushes back with more force. They kiss the same way they argue, vicious and passionate, perfect opposites, with an air of inevitability to every movement. It makes Rachel think of endless circles, like she could never possibly stop doing this now, like this could last forever. 

 

And then, of course, in one swift motion a million times faster than how they’d started (years, they’ve been inching closer for so many years) Quinn stops. Pulls back, gasping, and runs. 

 

Rachel’s mind hasn’t even fully returned to her body yet when the front door slams shut. 

 

Her body isn’t her own. She can’t move, can only stare up at the ceiling.

 

So this is it. 

 

So this is how it all gets ruined. 


End file.
